


My smile still stays on

by Keepoffthegrass



Category: Moulin Rouge! (2001), Sherlock (TV)
Genre: F/M, M/M, au from bbc sherlock, cross over but not really, i'm turning into the crossover queen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-05-05
Updated: 2014-06-30
Packaged: 2017-12-10 13:03:40
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Major Character Death, Rape/Non-Con
Chapters: 12
Words: 8,103
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/786331
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Keepoffthegrass/pseuds/Keepoffthegrass
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>So for some reason I got it into my head that Moulin rouge would work with Sherlock as satine etc, and sadly it turned out I wasn't the only one lol. Anyway this isn't exactly a crossover, I don't know what the word is for what it is if there is one...what started as a simple idea has remained that :P, but given me a little room to explore my beloved Victorian time period, so it is 99% plot of Moulin rouge with a surprise...and some history trivia thrown in.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> contains moulin rouge spoilers, if you have not yet seen it, why not?, be warned. staring moriarty as the duke and anderson as the dwarf and mycroft as harry z, aka a pimp basically. it is victorian if that isn't clear but it's in london not paris.  
> moulin rouge! is the property of baz lurhman and idk, 20th century fox? not me at any rate. sherlock et al belong to bbc conan doyle gatiss and moffat, and to an extent the actors. written for fun not profit, i own nothing.

 Dear father,  
I know this goes against your wishes, and even I believe your morals, but in honour of my still-beating heart, I am going to follow my own wishes, as perhaps I should have done long ago.  
 The army has broken my body father but I will not let it break what is left of my spirit …when mother died she told me to always have faith in dreams, did you know that?  
   I intend to take up my pen and dust off the covers of my journals; I am a ridiculous age to start writing I know, but I know as much about beauty, freedom, truth and love as the next man, that is to say everything and nothing.  
 I remain your affectionate son,  
John H Watson


	2. 1

Friday afternoon found John dawdling over a cup of tea and a bun in one of London’s cheaper establishments. Suddenly he became aware of a man speaking to him.  
  
“I say its John Watson isn’t it? Michael, Michael Stamford, we trained together”  
  
“Of course, forgive me” John apologised with a nod, shaking the hand thrust good-naturedly in front of him.  
  
“Not at all Watson; I got fat I admit. Sadly not through the good home cooking of a devoted wife, thank heavens for the red windmill eh?” Stamford smiled, dropping his voice to a whisper.  
  
“I’m sorry the what?”  
  
“The red windmill old chap, opened last year. It’s a sort of theatre/dance hall that also serves the pleasures of the flesh. You should come with me tonight, no offense but you look like you could use some fun”    
  
  
  
So that was how John found himself seated at a table pushed into a corner of the small but cosy dance hall, observing the brightly-dressed painted ladies kicking their heels up as they danced on the stage. Taking a cautious sip of his green drink he caught a flash of white out of the corner of his eye, on the balcony above the stage, and looked up to see what it was. It was a hand, which belonged to a man who was sitting close to a woman in deep conversation. Even through the dim light and the smoke and distance, John could still tell that they were easily the most beautiful people in the room. Matching dark wavy hair, high cheekbones and a calculating intelligence in their eyes had John wondering if they were siblings. Suddenly the man looked right at John, who inclined his head in a polite acknowledgment before studying his glass. When he deemed it safe to look up again the man had gone, and as he scanned the room looking for him he became aware of the silence that had descended.  
    
“Good evening to you all; ladies and gentleman, boys and girls, although I sincerely hope that the last two are fewer in number” A few laughs followed these words, addressed by a deep rumbly voice and, whipping his head around, John found the man stalking around the stage; all long lean lines and confident natural grace.  
  
“…there are plenty of lonely ladies, and gents, wishing for a dance partner so if you would take to the floor, enjoy the rest of the night!”  
  
There was applause and some whistling before a small band struck up a raucous melody and John found his table whisked away, leaving him standing awkwardly on the dance floor for a moment before he walked away to a safe corner, cane in hand, as the floor filled up with seducers and seduced.  
  
“You don’t need that cane. Dance with me” The man John had seen earlier was now standing in front of him, hand extended.  
  
“I’m sorry what?” taking advantage of John’s stunned state, the man manoeuvred his body close to his own until he was naturally swaying against him.  
  
“You’ve been sitting for a while, one would imagine your leg would buckle but you walked straight. There is nothing wrong with your leg. You do come from the army though so you were injured somewhere…”  
  
“How did you know that?” John gaped.  
  
“Simple” the man snorted. “And even if it was not, we get a lot of soldiers here. Funny that…”  
  
“I suppose the fear of death makes one grab enjoyment where he can. What else do you know about me?” John supplied.  
  
“You are officer class, no family or at least none that you are close to. You have a considerable amount of ink on your hand so you have been writing a lot of late…I can also tell by the hesitant way that you are dancing you have never been with a man. Irene will take care of you, we look after soldiers here”  
  



	3. 2

“Hello sweetie! Awake at last. I shouldn’t have let you stay really, it should cost you extra! ; but seeing as you are new here and recently returned from the war I’ll let you off this once.” Irene’s face softened and she splayed a hand over John’s wounded shoulder “You looked as though you could use the rest. Does it hurt terribly?”  
  
John pulled away reluctantly, unable to take pity.  
  
“I’m grateful but I won’t take up any more of your time” as he busied himself dressing he remembered the man from earlier.  
  
“The man you were with on the balcony, he said things about me, like he knew me although we have never met. How does he do that?”  
  
Irene laughed “Don’t mind Sherlock, he doesn’t mean any harm. He calls it ‘The Science Of Deduction’-he observes a thing and can deduce all about it based on his observations. His mind is as sharp as his bone structure”  
  
“Are the two of you related?” John couldn’t help but ask.  
  
“No but some people like to pretend we are. Will you be coming back?”  
  
John had finished dressing and was now laying some money down on the bedside table.  
  
“I might. I’m sure there is much left to see” John smiled and Irene smiled back.  
  
 “You can find me every day except Tuesday and Saturday”  
  
“I’m not sure my army pension could support such a habit” John admitted.  
  
“Soldiers get special deals here…but come on a Monday; Sherlock and I put on a bit of a show and work the room. You see we are the stars of the red windmill, Sherlock and I, the sparkling diamonds if you like, the ones most people come to see and the ones who cost the most, but Mondays are for those unfamiliar with the windmill or undecided as to which of us they prefer; Sherlock or me. Monday is decide day and as such is a lower price” Irene helpfully explained.   
  John hesitated over the proper way to take his leave, opting for a kiss on the cheek, and hurried home to his notebook.


	4. 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> thank you to the person who bookmarked x

Once again John found himself at the red windmill, watching as up on stage Irene sang something about diamonds being a girl’s best friend. The crowd whistled and cheered as she shimmed and pouted.  
  
“How can I possibly compete with the lovely Irene?” Sherlock suddenly made his appearance at the side of the stage “She does sing very prettily, but the choice of song says it all-ladies demand diamonds and the like; men are easier to please, all we want is a good hard seeing to…” he grabbed his crotch with a lewd wink and John could hear that his actions got as loud a cheer as Irene, if not louder.  
  
“But of course if you still can’t decide which of us you would prefer to warm the bed, then you could have us both”  Sherlock announced before stalking over to Irene and pulling her in for the most sensually obscene kiss John had ever witnessed.  
  
The curtain dropped and drinks were delivered to tables in the thick silence that followed. John’s attention was caught by a dwarf singing to himself, three sheets to the wind clutching a bottle, so he started when he felt a hand brush across his back.   
Sherlock dropped into the empty chair opposite John with a smirk.  
  
“You came back” he pointed out, dragging on a cigar as he watched John’s face.  
  
“Irene…”   
  
Sherlock nodded, face half hidden in a curl of smoke like a halo on a back-street angel. “She is rather good but I can guarantee that I am better”   
  
John ducked his head until he felt able to look Sherlock in the face again “Why are you sitting here?” he finally replied  
  
“Because my dear soldier this is the part where we flit around some tables like pretty butterflies, meeting and greeting potential clients, and generally leaving a devastating trail of lust and desire in our wake. Is it working?”   
  
John smiled “I’m afraid not, unless one is meant to feel annoyance before the lust kicks in?”  
  
Sherlock laughed until he coughed so hard John felt compelled to stub out his  cigar.

“It all gets a trifle dull; the truth is I just wanted to talk to you. I could just as easily cosy up to Anderson” Sherlock explained.  
  
“Anderson?”  
 Sherlock indicated the drunk dwarf.   
  
“Pour me a drink would you?” Sherlock demanded, running a hand through his slicked back hair with a shiver.  
  
John pushed a brandy into his hand pouring one for himself “Are you cold?” he asked.  
  
“Just a slight chill, something and nothing” Sherlock brushed it off “Why don’t you keep me warm?”   
  
  John blushed but stayed silent, even when one long cool finger stroked down his warm cheek.  
  
“How sweet. I haven’t seen a man blush in years. Well I should be moving on and Irene is headed this way…it was nice talking to you…?”  
  
“John, Watson”  
  
“Remember John that you can have Irene and I together anytime you wish” Sherlock whispered into John’s ear before taking his leave.  
  



	5. 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Big thanks to Latinus and Alphaoshadow for book marking :) it would be nice if you could leave a quick comment and let me know what you like, what could be changed etc.  
> Really sorry for being a slow writer and taking ages to update, I will finish it however as I know wip's suck.  
> In my research I found that actually the first stage of TB is a dry cough-you don't automatically cough blood so if the illness seems a bit slow at first that's why.  
>  It may be totally unrealistic but the idea I have in my mind is that the windmill consists of two buildings next to each other-the windmill proper has a small stage and dance floor and Irene and Sherlock have their rooms on the top floor (maybe Mycroft has an attic room, I don't know I haven't thought about him lol), the building next door is where the rest of the performers lodge. They were procured reasonably priced as they have seen better days.

John’s life soon settled into a routine that consisted of writing by day and hanging out at the Red Windmill come nightfall, all anchored together by the need to stretch his meagre income as far as it would go.  Special soldier’s rates or not Irene was still an expensive habit to keep and one which John had to trim back. Truth be told he was happy just to observe and gather artistic inspiration.  
   One day he discovered that Anderson the dwarf wasn’t just a drunkard but a writer also.  
  
“Mycroft, the windmills owner, has hopes of turning this place into a theatre. I’ve written some original shows for them…they have to get the seal of approval from Sherlock first and to say he is hard to please would be an understatement” Anderson explained to John over a drink. Or two.  
  
“That’s amazing! I’ve just started writing myself, I mean I always wanted to but my father didn’t approve and I joined the army…but I’m trying now. Could you take a look some time? I would appreciate your opinion…”  
  
“Of course! Think nothing of it. We could go to your lodgings now if it suits?”

  

John agreed readily and they made to leave but he stopped out of curiosity when he saw Sherlock coming down the stairs with a little girl holding an apple. Reaching the bottom he tied her hair back with a blue ribbon.  
  
“There now. It matches your eyes” Sherlock told her before beckoning a mousey young woman over “Molly take the child home; her father is otherwise…detained. I’m sure her mother must be worried”  
  
As the two left Sherlock turned to John with a challenging stare that John felt obligated to answer but wasn’t sure of the rules to know how to.  
  
“That was kind” he finally settled on.  
  
“Do you think that whores can’t be kind?”  
  
“I didn’t mean to imply that…” John stammered.  
  
Sherlock smiled in amusement “Relax, I’m just playing with you” he purred. “You are getting to be somewhat of a permanent fixture here although I must admit that you and Anderson make an odd duo…”  
  
                                                         xxxx  
  
John smiled in bemusement as Anderson waxed lyrical about his writing.  
  
“You truly have a gift John! We should write a show together!”  
  
“Do you really think so?”  
  
“Absolutely! Let’s start now”  
  
                                                        xxxx  
  
After working non- stop for three days Anderson suggested they take a break at the windmill and John agreed.  
While there over a glass of absinthe Anderson gave John a breakdown of some of the characters who inhabited the windmill.  
  
“Well you know Sherlock, Mr-too-good-to-be-whoring, and Irene; the beautiful courtesan who dreams of being a real actress. The small brunette in the corner there is Molly; she is a talented seamstress by all accounts; hopelessly and pointlessly in love with Sherlock. The coloured girl with the scowl on her face is Sally-hideously jealous of Sherlock and Irene and very against men who love men”  
  
“Is that it?” John asked.  
  
“Well the people of any importance; there are bit players as you know. Dancers, some singers, cheaper prostitutes…and Mycroft but he’s rarely seen”  
  
  Suddenly a respectably dressed man wearing a bowler hat rushed upstairs in the direction of Sherlock and Irene’s rooms.  
  
Anderson followed John’s gaze “Oh and him-Detective Inspector Gregory Lestrade. Works for Scotland Yard; Sherlock helps him when he is out of his depth, I suppose he is quite lenient in return…”  
  
John must have looked scandalised because Anderson laughed.  
  
“He doesn’t help him like that! He offers his unique and insightful eye on cases”  
  
      Somehow a quick break at the windmill turned into an all-nighter and they headed to John’s humble lodgings in the early hours of the new day in high spirits.  
  
                                    xxxx  
  
“Sherlock are you all right?” Irene asked with concern but also some impatience as they were due on stage.  
  
“I’ll be fine; go on without me, I just need a minute.” He answered through his coughs.  
  
Irene nodded and told Molly to fetch Sherlock a drink before slipping through the thick curtains and out to the stage.  
  
“Are you better now?” Molly gazed at Sherlock with large earnest eyes.

 

“I just need to catch my breath before facing the vultures” he nodded.  
  
“I’m sure they can’t all be like that” Molly frowned “Captain Watson seems nice”  
  
Sherlock wondered how she could live here and still be so naïve so he changed the subject. “One day we’ll all fly away from here; you can make beautiful costumes for Irene when she becomes a proper actress and I’ll be a consulting detective for real, not just as a hobby….or we have to do is get this dump turned into a real theatre…”  
  
                                             xxxx  
  
Two men sat on the balcony above the stage, watching as Irene and Sherlock acted out an erotic novel.

  
“I want him Mycroft” the younger of the two said.  
  
“I’ll arrange for you to meet him next week Duke” Mycroft replied.


	6. 5

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The Dukes gloves : by the later part of the Victorian era (this is set 1898) men's fashion was dark and somber, a huge contrast to the bright designs of the 1860s, and the only colour came from accessories.  
> The idea that John says he wants to read something to Sherlock and Sherlock doesn't find it odd, only expects to read with him, comes from the fact that the explorer Richard Burton and his close (ahem) friend Algernon Charles Swinburne, used to pass around a manuscript to their buddies and they would all add to and read this erotic fiction.  
>  Little gentleman and Lady Jane are terms for male and female downstair bits

Upstairs in the Red Windmill Mycroft was drumming in the importance of the meeting with The Duke to Sherlock, while downstairs Anderson was encouraging John in the belief that they were ready-today was the day to present their idea for a play to Sherlock. It was inevitable that the two would clash.  
  
John knocked on Sherlock’s door then stood nervously for a few seconds while he waited for admittance.  
  
“It’s open” Sherlock called before turning to him with a dazzling smile, which soon fell once he saw it was John.  “Oh it’s you” he said as he tightened the sash on his dark blue robe. He seemed to reassess the situation as he looked up at John with a smug and seductive smirk. “It is you. I’m terribly pleased you found your way to me at last…Irene will be so jealous! She misses you you know? Says your little gentleman is very good at satisfying her Lady Jane…but I’m expecting someone so I don’t have time right now”  
  
John blushed like a child and stammered a reply “I’m not here to…I just came to…I’d like to read something to you”  
  
Sherlock nodded, understanding written on his countenance “Start small and build up; very wise. Shall I read with you?”  
  
“I think it would be best if I did it alone” John shuffled his notes and cleared his throat while Sherlock watched with a look of polite but bored detachment.  
  
“I don’t have much money, but if I did I’d buy a big house where we…where we both could live…” John risked a glance at Sherlock but only saw confusion then annoyance. “I’m not one of those that can easily hide… _I have to do something to get his attention, the lads in the army said I had a fine singing voice…I can’t sing to him! You have to; he’s paying no notice to you…_ ”    
   Indeed Sherlock was arranging his curls to their best advantage in the looking glass and had his back to John.  
  
John took a deep breath and began:  “My gift is my song, and this one’s for you. And you can tell everybody that this is your song. It may be quite simple but now that it’s done hope you don’t mind, I hope you don’t mind, that I put down in words, how interesting life is now I know that you are in the world.  
   You have soft curly hair, or um, at least it looks soft but I’m not really sure. You’re tall and impressive but that’s something you already know!  Look outside your window; it’s true it usually rains , but the suns being kind while I’m making up this song, it makes me wonder if it’s you that’s keeping it turned on”  
  
  Sherlock whipped around so fast at ‘interesting life is’, his perfect curls bounced into disarray.  
  
“So excuse me for not noticing but it can be hard to tell, you see I don’t know if their green or their blue, but what the thing is, what I really mean; you’ve got the loveliest eyes I’ve ever seen! I think I’d like to get to know you better but I can’t because I’m a fella…” John watched Sherlock’s expressions change from amused too pleased and hopefully asked, “Is this good? Is it what you want, what you like?”  
  
  A loud rap at the door brought Sherlock to his senses. “The Duke! You have to hide, now! Get under the bed” John was about to protest but Sherlock’s exaggerated hand gestures brooked any argument.  
  
“Just a minute” Sherlock called as he hastily finger-combed his hair before throwing open the door.  
  
“I’ll leave the two of you alone” Mycroft bowed and withdrew.  
  
“Dear Duke; I have been eagerly awaiting your arrival”  
  
“As I have been awaiting this meeting Sherlock. I can call you Sherlock?” the Duke asked as he removed his lavender kid gloves.  
  
“You can call me whatever you like” Sherlock purred.  
  
“I’d like to call you by your name; Sherlock is your real name?”  
  
“Yes actually it is; my mother had a strange sense of humour” Sherlock smiled warmly before offering the Duke some refreshment.  
  “We don’t have anything as fine as you are used to of course, but we try and make people happy at the Windmill”  
  
“ What if I would rather taste your lips?” Under the bed John rolled his eyes and tried to adjust his position so that he could see more than just feet.  
  
“I’m sure that could be arranged…later. I hear you have an interest in our plans to become a proper theatre, a respectable business?”  
  
The Duke gave an oily smile “Perhaps, with some conditions; mostly it depends on if you please me or not”  
  
“I can assure you all my customers leave me fully satisfied”  
  
“I don’t doubt you, but I would rather make up my own mind on the point. Take off your robe”  
  
 John saw the dark flimsy material hit the floor and heard the sharp intake of breath from The Duke before he ordered Sherlock onto the bed, where he promptly joined him while John prayed said bed didn’t collapse on top of him.  
  
“I’ve been watching you, on stage” The Duke whispered. “You don’t know how long I’ve waited for this; you naked before me…open my trousers, take it out…touch it”  
  
“We should wait!” Sherlock advised.  
  
“What? Why?”  
  
“I know a talented writer; injured army captain, the public will love him and he will give us our first hit; in a couple of weeks when his work has been revised and tweaked and everyone at the Windmill knows what role they will have, then you can approve the play and watch some rehearsal, and spend some time alone with me…just imagine how much sweeter the moment will feel after you have had to wait for it hmm? Imagine how good my hand will feel on you, my mouth…”  
  
“Your mouth, yes…I suppose your suggestion has merit, but one week not two!”  
  
“As you wish. Until next week then” Sherlock smiled.  
  
“I’ll collect my kiss now then” The Duke declared.  
  
“I would be offended if you didn’t”  
  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………....

“You can come out now” Sherlock said and John gratefully crawled out from under the bed, only to be met with a still-naked Sherlock who held his robe balled up in one fist which he was using to point in John’s direction.  
  
“So you’re another one of Anderson’s oh-so-talented-penniless-writers are you?!”  
  
“I suppose, but I’ll leave the talented for you to decide” John smirked as a thought came to him. “Didn’t you deduce that from the ink on my hand?”  
  
“I thought you were writing a lot of letters! , seeking employment, complaining to the papers about soldiers wages; that sort of thing. I shouldn’t have let you in, God knows what would have happened if The Duke…The Duke…”  
   John had seen enough privates faint at the sight of blood to know what was about to happen, and he managed to catch Sherlock before he hit the floor. Laying him down on the bed he took his pulse and laid a hand against his brow, while trying not to look at his body too long, to the point where natural curiosity turned into open admiration.  
  
“How did I get here?” Sherlock asked groggily as he came round.  
  
“You fainted, I caught you”  
  
“Men don’t faint” Sherlock frowned.  
  
“You lost consciousness then. I’ll be honest; I never wanted to be a doctor so I didn’t finish medical school, my expertise lie in cutting off limbs…all the same I know enough to know you should rest for a bit” John counselled.  
  
“I’m all right, just a little tired”  
  
 Footsteps could clearly be heard striding towards the room, and as John was still leaning over Sherlock, he took the advantage of surprise to push up and roll them both onto the floor beside the bed, John on the bottom.  
  
“I explained our arraignment to Mycroft then realised I had left my gloves here” The Duke stopped short looking quizzically at Sherlock. “Why are you on the floor?  
  
“I dropped something. I was looking for it” Sherlock innocently replied.  
  
“Oh. Well would you like some help?”  
  
“I’ll be fine, thank you. I know you must have all sorts of duties and responsibilities; I wouldn’t want to detain you. And…” he sighed. “Being so near you makes it difficult to keep to our agreement of waiting a week…”  
  
“Yes I can see your point. Until we meet again Sherlock” The Duke nodded smugly before closing the door.  
  
“Sorry about manhandling you to the floor but there wasn’t time to explain. Actually I’m not that sorry-I think I rather like you like this” Sherlock grinned wickedly down at John and he cursed, not for the first time, his propensity to blush at the slightest thing.  
  
“If you only came to see me because Anderson told you to, you should see Irene some time…I was telling the truth when I said she missed you. Not that she wouldn’t abandon you in a heartbeat if Lestrade would make an honest woman of her, but she does like you”  
  
Being reminded of Irene while an attractive nude person was a top of him wasn’t easy. Luckily his injured shoulder decided to protest the prolonged contact with the floor.  
  
“Captain Watson! Are you wriggling under me?” Sherlock questioned in scandalised amusement.  
  
“No! It’s my shoulder…”  
  
“Sorry. Sit on the bed and I’ll rub it for you, and after that I’m going to tell Mycroft to close for the day and throw a celebratory party! And you can be the guest of honour”


	7. 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A little kinda interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buttered bun is a charming Victorian euphermisum (and I cant spell today) for laying with a woman who has already been with a man-much nicer than sloppy seconds.

Everybody was happy to celebrate Sherlock’s achievement of the possibility of securing the chance for the Windmill to become a real theatre. When John told him what had happened when he went to pitch their idea to Sherlock, Anderson seemed convinced of their role in the success and metaphorically patted himself on the back by downing copious amounts of gin and absinthe. Rolling his eyes, John left him mumbling to Molly while he went to see if he could talk Irene into giving him some attention.  He didn’t expect to find her in a quiet corner sitting in Sherlock’s lap.  
  
“You smell nice; new perfume?” John heard Sherlock ask.  
  
“Jeffery gave it to me. It’s from France apparently” Irene replied, sniffing her wrist.  
  
“The one with the moustache?”  
  
“Yes” she giggled. “John! Enjoying the party?”  
  
“I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to intrude. I was just…” John turned to leave.  
  
“You don’t fancy a buttered bun then Captain?” Sherlock queried with a smile.  
  
Irene made an offended noise and hit him on the arm “Don’t listen to him; Sherlock is in a good mood, but sadly he has no gift for humour. We weren’t doing anything.”  
  
“It really isn’t any of my business either way” John hid his awkwardness by checking the time. “I should probably be heading home now; it will be a busy week and I don’t think Anderson will be much help for a couple of days”  
  
“That’s a good idea, I think I will turn in myself. Good night John, and well done Sherlock darling” Irene kissed Sherlock on the cheek and told John she hoped she would see him soon.  
 John murmured his agreement and watched her retreating form before turning back to face Sherlock.  
  
“Have a drink with me before you go” Sherlock all but commanded, as he slinked past John like a panther, satiny robe still on and wild nimbus of curls framing his aristocratic face.  
  
  Walking over to a table he guided John to sit while he whispered instructions to a passing member of the Windmill before seating himself. 

 

They came back bearing a tray with two glasses of absinthe, slotted sugar-cube-holding spoons over each one, and a bowl of ice water.  
  
“Give me your hand”  
  
Bemused but feeling generous and full of good cheer, bolstered by the prospect of a writing job and fuelled by the hedonistic atmosphere, John held out his hand. Sherlock placed his opposite alongside it; thumb over John’s own, before plunging them into the bowl of water then holding them over the spoon set on the glass in front of John.  
  
“The water has to be dripped over, not poured” Sherlock explained in seductive smoky tones that made John think of whiskey and peat fires. By the time they had repeated the gesture enough times for the drink to be ready John was shivering in a way that couldn’t be entirely blamed on the ice water, and as he watched the droplets slide down Sherlock’s long fingers as he prepared his own drink, knew couldn’t be. Sherlock’s changeable eyes seemed at this moment to resemble the peridot hue of the absinthe, and as John’s lungs filled with the heady herbal aroma of anise and fennel as the preparation of Sherlock’s drink reached its cloudy completion, John vaguely wondered if he would be able to see that shade of green or smell herbs again without becoming aroused.

 


	8. 7

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly i'm sorry it's taken so long, i'm going to aim to update every Monday now. And i'm sorry it's short and not very good-writing this chapter was like pulling teeth for some reason.
> 
> um notes, well spend/spent etc is Victorian term for, presumably, male orgasm, fetching mettle is i'm sorry to say an 18th C term for male masturbation but I really like it and couldn't find a 19 C one so yeah. think that's it, I'll check when battery isn't dying lol. oh, park whores! you could pick male prostitutes up in park and have sex with them in the park for very little money

The next couple of days passed in a blur of editing, casting, and first rehearsals; but one thought always occupied the back of John’s mind until it needled at him so much, he was determined to find an answer that would allow him some peace. With this justification he found himself climbing up to the roof of the Red Windmill and in through Sherlock’s open window.  
  
“What the hell are you doing?! Do you mean to scare me to death?” Sherlock accused.  
  
“I’m sorry; I saw your light was on…my lodgings are across from the Windmill, and…”  
  
Sherlock frowned “Did you climb up here? I’m not sure if I should be flattered or fearful of your sanity”  
  
“I know, it was insane and I apologize. But I wanted to ask…did you mean what you said? Do you really think the show will be a success because of my writing?” John managed to get the words out at last while mainly looking at the floor.  
  
“I think you have a lot of potential yes. Did you mean what you said? , in that little song?  I have the loveliest eyes you’ve ever seen, and what-not?”  
  
“I can’t lie that fast” John honestly answered.  
  
“That isn’t what you really came all this way to ask me though is it?” Sherlock pulled out the chair from the dressing table and motioned for John to sit.  
  
“It really isn’t my place to ask” John blushed “It’s only that it has been bothering me and I fear it will interfere with my work…I just can’t understand it”  
  
At a nod from Sherlock he went on, the words tripping over themselves in their hurry to escape his mouth.  
  
“With the Duke that day, when you opened the door; you smiled like you adored him and your voice was so sincere when you parted…Do you have feelings for him?”  
  
Sherlock sighed deeply and looked at John with some pity. “Simply put; while everything usually comes off, my smile still has to stay on. I’m an actor, I don’t just get paid to have sex with people-I’m paid to make them believe whatever they want; that I respect them, desire them, even love them. It’s all make believe however, I can’t afford to fall in love”  
  
“Can’t fall in love?...but a life without love, that’s terrible!” John exclaimed.  
  
 “Being on the street at the mercy of the police, that’s terrible! Or being a park whore paid pennies!”  
  
“Well yes but love is a many splendored thing, love lifts us up where we belong-all you need is love!”  
  
“You writers…try saying that when you are hungry. Curiosity satisfied, or perhaps you are curious about something else?”  
  
“I don’t know what you mean” John stammered.  
  
“You can stop being coy Captain; I’ve seen you watch me when you think no one can see. It’s all right, I watch you too” Sherlock whispered.  
  
“I’ve never been interested in a man before, I wouldn’t know what to do…not that I could afford you if I was interested”  
  
“It isn’t really that different to be honest” Sherlock grinned, holding out his hand to John. “As for money don’t worry; today is my birthday and I want you to be my present”  
  
……………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………  
  
“If you make love as well as you kiss I can see why Irene is so fond of you. Now you just lie back and let me take care of you Captain Watson” Sherlock promisingly cajoled.  
  
“Call me John”  
  
“Very well John. Let’s get you out of those clothes shall we?”  
  
                                                                               xxxx  
  
August 18th 1898  
  
I have just come home after spending a night with Sherlock, and I mean that quite literally. On his initiation we stopped dancing around the fire of our mutual interest in one another and gave into our curiosity. I had my first homosexual experience…my only experience. Not that I deny enjoying it for I did, for many reasons; from the way Sherlock didn’t treat my scar with either pity or disgust, merely pressing one chaste kiss to it before moving on, to appreciating Sherlock’s undeniable beauty-his long lean lines and milky skin making him a marble-hewn Greek, while the charming imperfections render him the work of an artist still finding his feet, to the act itself…he took my John Thomas in his mouth and worked magic with his tongue until I spent down his throat! He said they do it a lot in America apparently, where ever it originates Irene certainly never did it.  Then I helped him to fetch mettle and didn’t even mind him spending on me, and then we slept.  He had the most violent nightmare, thrashing like a drowning man when I tried to comfort him…but now I have confused myself. My first and only experience? Yes that’s what I was saying, I’m not interested in men, Sherlock is the only one to catch my attention, but now I know what it is like I need not be curious any more, and Sherlock is a professional who reads the hearts of men but doesn’t seem to require one of his own.


	9. 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> here comes the surprise element I mentioned, jack the ripper inspired, not in Moulin rouge natch :p

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Firstly sorry it looks so awful! ive just got the free months trial of office after my free stuff ran out and for some reason it looks like this :(
> 
> Notes: well big mistake really, safety bicycles weren't that new then, but there was a bike boom in the 90's so, maybe there could have been a nice new version, hypothetically speaking :p  
> for telegraph boys google the cleveland street scandal  
> 3 penny upright-a cheap prostitute who does it upright against a wall in an alley

“Ok  
so this is the scene where Irene’s character meets Sherlock’s, so places  
please” John nervously requested, actively avoiding looking at Sherlock.  
  
  
  
Irene was convincingly falling in love when Lestrade came charging in.  
  
  
  
“Sherlock! I need you; got another body and I could use that mind of yours”  
  
  
  
“I’ll be there, just let me get my coat” Sherlock readily agreed. As Lestrade  
accepted a drink from Irene Sherlock wondered over to John. “You were an army  
doctor weren’t you?” he questioned  
  
  
  
“Sort of I suppose. Look when I can I expect you back? If you don’t know your  
lines there won’t be a show!”  
  
  
  
“So you’ve seen a lot of violent deaths then?”  
  
  
  
John sighed in irritation at having his enquiry ignored.  “Well that depends on how you look at it;  
I’ve seen violent injuries certainly”  
  
  
  
“Come with me; I’m sure your input could prove most helpful”  
  
  
  
………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………………  
  
That was how John found himself down an alley at 1 in the afternoon standing on  
the side-lines while Sherlock and Lestrade acted as if he wasn’t there.  
  
  
  
“Chimney sweep found him a couple of hours ago, killed sometime last night I’d  
say”  
  
  
  
“Could you confirm that for us doctor? Oh and cause of death while you’re at it.  
What did you mean ‘another’ body Lestrade? You haven’t mentioned anything to me  
before”  
  
  
  
John slowly got to his knees besides the body with a complaining grumble.  
  
  
  
“Well Sherlock funnily enough I don’t come to you with every single case!”  
Lestrade sarcastically replied. “They were just prostitutes, no offence, but  
this is the third in two months so I conceded that maybe I could use your eye”  
  
  
  
“Probably been dead for about 10 hours or so, cause of death was head  
injuries-he’s been beaten with a heavy blunt object…do you know who he is?”  
John solemnly delivered.  
  
  
  
“Not yet but we will”  
  
  
  
“Well don’t waste time asking round here” Sherlock coughed “His hair and nails  
are clean; he doesn’t spend his time on the streets, I’d say he’s in his late  
teens early twenties and he’s not very good at riding a bicycle; shame he  
couldn’t afford one of the newer safety ones”  
  
  
  
“If you’re making this up as you go along Sherlock…” Lestrade warned.  
  
  
  
“Look at his hands! He has the sort of calluses one could only get from  
gripping the handlebar of a bicycle too tightly. He preferred to walk; hence he  
has good quality boots. Conclusion?”  
  
  
  
“District messenger boy?” John guessed as he awkwardly got off the floor, knees  
clicking in protest.  
  
  
  
“Exactly!” Sherlock’s beam turned to a scowl “For the last time you don’t need  
that cane, there is nothing wrong with your leg”  
  
  
  
“They don’t deliver messages that late do they?” John said doubtfully.  
  
  
  
“Those boots are much better quality than the Royal Mail issues and probably  
beyond his wages; most of the messenger boys are prostitutes on the side…but it  
takes places in people’s homes. Why would he be out on the street at that time  
like some 3 penny up-right?”  
  
  
  
“Blackmail most likely” Lestrade offered. “You should go home, nasty cough you’ve  
got”  
  
Sherlock waved a hand dismissively “It comes and goes as it pleases; I’m  
accustomed to it”  
  
  
  
“There isn’t anything more you can do here. I’ll keep you updated, you have a  
play to rehearse” Lestrade smirked “I’m obliged for your help doctor”  
  
  
  
“How do you know so much about telegraph boys?” John asked once they were out  
of earshot of the detective inspector.  
  
  
  
“Because I used to be one”  
  
  
  
  
  



	10. 9

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> dollymop is an amateur prostitute, the term homosexual has only been in use since the late 1860s (?)

They were silent on the walk back until, just before they reached the windmill's door, Sherlock turned to John.  
  
“I'm a terrible actor you know, I may need some one-on-one help with my lines. Perhaps we could start tonight?”  
  
“I'm sorry; I know I gave into my curiosity that night but I'm not a homosexual” John stuttered.  
  
“Enjoy using a word that has only been in use for all of five minutes!” Sherlock growled before wrenching the door open and disappearing inside.  
  
…....................................................................................................................  
  
“Why is John with Sally? Didn't I see him sneaking out of your room not too long ago?” Irene asked.  
  
“Apparently his questions have all been answered and he would now prefer to spend his money on a dolly mop” Sherlock shrugged nonchalantly.  
  
“I'm sorry sweetie”  
  
“Why should I care about a writer when I have a Duke? Speaking of which he'll be here soon so Watson had better sell this ridiculous play!”  
   
                                                                    ****  
   
John took some calming breaths and told himself he refused to be intimidated by the impeccably dressed Duke. He also refused to pay attention to the possessive grip he had on Sherlock's arm.  
  
“It's set in India!” Anderson exclaimed.  
  
“India?” questioned the Duke.  
  
“Yes India” John agreed “Where a beautiful courtesan-”  
  
“Who will be played by me” Irene interjected.  
  
“Falls in love with a sitar player who she mistakes for a prince-”  
  
“Unfortunately that will be me” Sherlock explained.  
  
“And he has a magical sitar that speaks the truth!” Anderson chimed in.  
  
“But she has already accepted a proposal from the evil maharajah to save her um village, and-”  
  
“Does anyone die in the end?” the Duke queried.  
  
“No; it's about love, love overcoming all obstacles” John accidentally caught Sherlock's eye as he earnestly waxed lyrical about the plot and quickly looked back at the Duke who laughed.  
  
“Utter tosh of course but generally I like it. You'll get your theatre Mycroft; I'll drop in next week with all the necessary papers. Sherlock I believe we have our own business to conduct” With a polite nod to everyone assembled he followed Sherlock upstairs.


	11. 10

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> blind cupid is Victorian for someones behind.  
> stars in front and after =first a Victorian valentine, second a Victorian song
> 
> this is my best chapter so far I think, hope someone enjoys

Sherlock smoothed out the many creases from the love note as he read it yet again. He had a gut feeling that John was the sender but he couldn't be sure.  
  
 _*Kiss under a lily, kiss under a rose, but the best place to kiss is under the nose*. True words but I find myself unable to think of kissing anyone but you-in the embrace of another it is your face I see, your lips I feel. You have bewitched me, that is the only explanation that makes sense, the only problem is that the idea worries me less than it should...  
With respect,  
an admirer _  
  
  
…....................................................................................................................  
  
John tried hard not to stare at Sherlock and the Duke and instead tried to concentrate on directing rehearsals.  
  
“What's my line John?” Anderson whined. In truth he hadn't written much but he had taken the part of the magical sitar.  
  
“The only thing you'll ever learn is just to love and be...” John replied, mildly irritated, trailing off as he became distracted by the sight of Sherlock nibbling on the Duke's ear.  
  
“Be what?” the dwarf prompted.   
  
“Loved in returned” John finished swallowing hard.  
  
As the Duke left, saying something about having business in Paris and looking forward to seeing their progress on his return, Sherlock slinked out of the hall and John excused himself to follow.  
  
“Captain” Sherlock halted on the stairs as he curtly addressed John. A John who responded by crowding him up against the wall and kissing him desperately. Sherlock moaned and pulled John in closer.  
  
“I'm sorry” John reluctantly drew back. “I can't stop thinking about you” he admitted.  
  
“You sent me a letter...”  
  
John ducked his head with a blush.  
  
“I liked it. Most of the time when I get love notes they go on about my mouth or the 'lush curves of my blind cupid', yours made me feel...normal”  
  
“Can I see you tonight? Just one more night, I feel as though I'll go mad if I don't...”  
  
Sherlock hesitated, a small frown alighting on his ivory brow.  
  
“I can pay you if-” John rushed out.  
  
“No! I don't want you to buy me” Sherlock interjected before arranging a time for John to climb up to his room again      
                                                                        ****  
  
It was seven in the morning, John had planned on leaving earlier but Sherlock had spent a fitful night racked with coughs and it was only now that he was sleeping more deeply did John feel safe to leave the note and walk away. He took one last look at the small room and the gangly-limbed yet still elegant, man upon the bed before quietly walking out.  
  
  
Sherlock woke to the bright mid-day sun, its rays light but not strong enough to warm the empty space beside him where John had left hours ago. Not strong enough to warm his heart which recalled the countless times he had woken up just as alone, that John was no different then any paying client. Except he was because he had made Sherlock care.  
Shrugging on his robe he saw a folded piece of paper on the dresser and his weak treacherous heart beat faster; perhaps John had wanted to wake with him but had been unable to and this note was an apology?  
  
 _Sherlock, forgive me for leaving in this cowardly and cold way. Last night was wonderful, better than I could have dreamed, and I don't just mean what we did; talking to you, hearing you laugh...and there in lies the problem! *Somewhere the sun is shining, somewhere a little rain, somewhere a heart is pining for love, but all in vain; somewhere a soul is drifting further and far apart, somewhere my love is dreaming, somewhere a broken heart*....I am afraid it is my heart that will be broken, you who have no time for romance and sentiment, to whom love is just a word-I do not wish for you to look upon me with pity or contempt for I am not strong enough._  
Forgive me,  
J W  
  
…....................................................................................................................  
  
John reluctantly headed to the Windmill that night to talk over some script changes with Anderson. As it was Sherlock's day off he was hoping that he might have been elsewhere, with Lestrade perhaps or just plain out. No such luck however and he sauntered over with an unreadable expression as though he had been waiting for John.  
  
“Anderson, get lost. I need to talk to John and what I have to say doesn't concern you”  
  
Anderson hopped off his stool with difficulty, mumbling about a fine way to treat loyal patrons. Sherlock watched him leave with fond amusement before turning to John and informing him that he was an idiot.  
  
“Pardon?!”  
  
“You heard me. I am referring of course to your ridiculous letter”  
  
“Why does that make me an idiot?” John spluttered.  
  
“Because you seem to be implying that I have no heart, that I am incapable of love...I told you before; I can't afford to love, not that I choose not to! I've been doing this for a long time now and locking my heart up is the only way I can make it through the days. It never bothered me before because no one has ever touched me before...but you're different somehow. I want to give you the key”  
  
John sat dumb, no words capable of expressing the myriad of emotions he felt at that moment. Realising that Sherlock wanted, needed, some reply he mumbled an empathic yes.  
  
“It has to be more than sex-I will not be your free concubine!” Sherlock said sharply. “I want you to get to know me, to hopefully like me for who I am not what my body can do. I want to get to know you too” he added.  
  
“I want that also! That's why I was afraid, of my heart getting in too deep if you couldn't reciprocate” John explained.  
  
“Good then” Sherlock smiled “After lunch I normally take a walk in the park, sometimes I like company. Perhaps tomorrow you could accompany me”  
  



	12. 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> short but I think one of my best, sorry taken so long, comp issues  
> toffer-posh prostitute  
> broxy-the poor could buy meat from a sheep that had dropped dead of who knows what, risky but a way to get meat  
> saloop-a kind of milky sweet drink considered medicinal as it was sweet and nutritious  
> calves foot jelly-considered proper food for invalids, I presume because it was easy to slice so easy to chew?  
> tattoo-in 1898 100,000 people in London alone had a tattoo! it used to just be sailors and criminals but in '62 prince of wales got one so the wealthy copied. I think Sherlock and Irene had them done together, she has a butterfly, they represent freedom

Sherlock and John slowly winded their way through the cities over-crowded bustling streets as they headed for the relative tranquillity of the garden square, dodging man and beast alike while the cries of sellers flogging their wares filled the air as heavily as the scents of the street food did. A chill was beginning to make its presence felt but Sherlock, whose eyes were fever-bright, didn't seem to mind. John paused briefly to buy a pie and roast potatoes, their wrappings of newspaper twists adding a cheerful crinkle to the cacophony of noise.

“Do you want anything?” He asked Sherlock as he paid.

“Not hungry. I wouldn't mind a hot chocolate though”

They ate quickly and retreated to the welcoming green space where they miraculously found a bench to themselves to watch the world go by; men like ravens in sombre dark coats, the top hats of the wealthy and traditional standing high and proud amongst the sea of bowler hats while the women resembled jewels or the insides of a gift box. Sherlock astounded and amused John by telling him the life stories of passers-by with his 'science of deduction' and the hour positively flew by.

“Would you like to have dinner with me tomorrow, at my lodgings I mean? It isn't much but I'm not a bad cook...” John nervously mumbled as he walked Sherlock back to the windmill.

“I live in the red windmill; I am certain your humble abode will seem like a hotel in comparison.” Sherlock snorted. “ I'd like that, seeing where you call home. Thank you” 

“I'll call for you at eight” John beamed. 

 

****

 

Where John called home had most definitely seen better days, but it was charming in a ramshackle way. Paper with scribbled notes and pieces that were as yet unadorned littered most surfaces.

“Sorry it isn't very army like” John apologised as he swept paper off the table and chairs.

“You never wanted to join anyway” Sherlock shrugged “I like chaos so I feel right at home” he smirked.

“How did you know? Never mind. Dinner!” John washed his hands and got to work. “It's just potatoes and mutton I'm afraid, still it beats the saloop and calves foot jelly I had to have when I was recovering...”

Sherlock looked contemplative. “I'm glad you got shot. If you hadn't you would never have come to the windmill or allowed yourself to write...anyway why are so worried about my opinion? Do you think I mind what I eat?”

“Well the way you talk and everything...it is obvious you-” John muttered with a blush.

“Obvious I what?-come from a higher class than you? Had a better education than you? Fat lot of use it has done me! Honestly as long as it isn't broxy I don't care John”

“I can promise no broxy. There's eggs in the morning, if you want to stay that is I mean”

“See how good your cooking is first” he winked before becoming serious again. “How come you know how to cook anyway?”

“My mother drank. A lot. Someone had to feed my dad and my sister so I did. How did you end up as a toffer?”

“I haven't been called that in an age!” Sherlock laughed.

“Hanging around plebs like me; your posh has worn off” John smiled, happy to hear Sherlock laugh.

“Very likely. You're funny for a doctor”

“Army doctor, makes all the difference. So?”

“That is a story I am not ready to tell”

“Fair enough” John shrugged.

. . .

 

As Sherlock slept, long limbs over hanging the cramped bed, John tried to feel something for breaking the laws of man and god-guilt or shame. As he chuckled a little at the frizzy nest that Sherlock's curls had become and traced the small bird tattoo on his shoulder he realised he felt only contentment.


End file.
